


Rough Edges, Polished Smooth

by iodhadh



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, Fingering, Friendship, Rough Sex, Service Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iodhadh/pseuds/iodhadh
Summary: Cassandra said it was never going to happen. The Iron Bull said that worked for him. Unfortunately, it turns out that isn't going to work for Cassandra.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenityfails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityfails/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday or possibly very early Christmas to Katie, light of my life, my shining star, etc. etc. I wanted to have this done for the Black Emporium Exchange, but instead I was in New Orleans, as one does. I hope it brightens up your day, coming now instead.
> 
> Many thanks to Toft for helping me with brainstorming, and also for wrangling voice.

Cassandra sits on a bench at the side of the training grounds, cleaning her weapons. The afternoon sun sinks on Skyhold and washes her in a fading, dusty light. Most of the soldiers have left already; those that remain are giving her a wide berth, and what attention she hasn’t focused on her sword, she’s focusing on pretending she hasn’t noticed.

Worse, even—on pretending she doesn’t merit it. More men than usual left by way of the healers’ care today, and everyone knows it’s her bad mood to blame. She can scold them to keep their guard up all she likes, but it makes no difference when she plows through their defences regardless.

She might not have felt quite so bad about knocking them all down if it had actually helped, but despite the hard day sparring she feels just as restless as she did when she woke up. Instead, all that’s been gained for the day is a lot of unnecessary cuts and bruises and possibly a fractured arm. Small wonder the men are avoiding her.

She doesn’t move as the remaining soldiers filter out, keeping her eyes on her weapon and her hands busy, as if she can rub away her frustrations as easily as she can buff out the nicks and smudges on her sword. As such, it’s only when someone stops in front of her that she looks up to find they’re alone.

The Iron Bull offers her an easy smile, apparently indifferent to the thundercloud she knows is sitting on her face. “Hey, Seeker,” he says. “Got a minute? Wanted to talk to you about something.”

Cassandra restrains herself—barely—from gesturing around at the utter lack of current constraints on her time. The Bull is a friend; he doesn’t deserve to be the victim of her tongue today, even if the last thing she wants to do right now is discuss troop movements.

“Of course,” she says instead. “What is it?”

And then he surprises her by dropping into a seat next to her, his hand briefly brushing her shoulder in a companionable gesture. “I was wondering how you were doing. You were, uh, more aggressive than usual today. You feeling alright?”

For a moment, all Cassandra can do is blink at him. Then sense reasserts itself: of course the Bull would notice her bad mood. Or rather—everyone noticed her bad mood, she corrects herself. Of course the Bull would try to do something about it.

“I am fine. For the most part,” she says. It’s been ages since she was in the field, the Inquisitor took Blackwall with her to Adamant Fortress, she dreads the upcoming trip to Orlais and all the fussing and fripperies that go along with it—her list of complaints is as petty as it is endless. She sighs. “I am simply—frustrated. And there are few ways open to me to exorcise my frustrations outside of hitting them until they go away.”

The Bull’s mouth pulls up into a brief grin, and Cassandra feels herself smile wryly in answer. For the first time in nearly a week she feels almost normal, and some whim compels her to touch his forearm where it lies next to hers. “I am simply having a bad day,” she says. “But I do appreciate you asking.”

“Hey, anytime,” the Bull says. He nudges her gently in the side, his mouth canting. “But, you know, there are better ways you can work out your frustrations, Seeker. Isn’t there some nice anonymous soldier you can…” He trails off, his brow fluttering in a parody of suggestiveness.

Without thinking, Cassandra swats him on the arm, and he laughs as he pretends to stagger away. “Fine, fine, I take it back. Stick to hitting things.”

Cassandra laughs along with him, but at the same time she can’t help but wish it could be as simple for her as it apparently is for the Bull. It might help if she _could_ work out her frustrations like that, but she knows herself well enough to know she’d be horribly awkward with someone she didn’t know—and, much as she might hate to admit it, she also can’t pretend a near-stranger wouldn’t be star-struck over her fame. That’s bad enough in the field or at official functions; she can’t even imagine how uncomfortable it would make her in bed.

And then there’s the ridiculous fact that she’d feel guilty about setting Galyan aside, even though it’s been nearly a year and she knows he’d want her to move on—and she has, mostly, but she still couldn’t do it with a stranger. A blank slate would leave her too inclined to fill in false details, and then she’d stumble when they were proven wrong.

Maybe it would be different with—not a lover, but a friend, someone whose details she already knows, but that’s awkward for its own host of reasons, and she’s had precious few chances of that anyway. None, in fact, aside from the Bull’s own offer, which she already turned aside.

For a moment she rather regrets that. What good might it have done her if she had said yes?

And then, another thought, a perverse whim that flickers into being with a clear and unwarranted self-assurance: what good might it do her if she says yes right now?

She darts a quick glance around the yard. They’re quite alone; the sun has dipped below Skyhold’s walls now, and everyone has better places to be at the dinner hour than lurking in the margins of her conversation with the Bull. And so before she can allow herself to think better of it, she says, “I wonder—might you still be interested in helping me with my frustrations?”

Once again, the Bull laughs. “Hey, I’d be happy to let you beat my ass on the field if you’re that hard up,” he says.

“Bull,” Cassandra says.

Abruptly he realizes she’s not laughing along. He sobers immediately. Cassandra nearly has to smile at that. It’s one of the things she appreciates most about him—for all his boisterous charm, he always knows when to stop playing.

“Shit, you’re serious,” he says. “Seeker—Cassandra,” he corrects himself, “are you sure about this? You had your reasons for saying no—”

“Bull,” Cassandra repeats, holding up her hand to stem the flow of his objections, “please do not give me the chance to talk myself out of this.”

The Bull has to chuckle at that, but his focus doesn’t waver. “So long as you know what you want,” he says.

“I do.”

He studies her for a long moment, then nods. “Alright,” he says slowly. “What are your terms?”

Relief floods her. She could kiss him for that— _will_ kiss him, if all goes well, she realizes with a thrill of excitement. “I need your discretion,” she says. “I cannot have word of this getting back to—to those under my command, or our advisors, or—anyone. Not one single person is to know.”

“Done,” the Bull says. He’s quick to agree; Cassandra suspects there’s very little she could ask that he wouldn’t agree to, though he’s doing a good job of keeping his excitement under wraps. “Anything else?”

Cassandra bites her lip and considers. “This only happens once,” she says. “After tonight, things go back to exactly how they were, as if it never happened. Neither of us ever mentions it again. As far as I am concerned, our previous conversation was the last word on the matter.”

The Bull nods, as if he expected nothing else. “I can do that, too. Where did you want to go?”

“Your room. Please,” Cassandra says. She doesn’t even want to think about sex in her bare little loft. The Bull may not have bothered to patch the roof in his room, but hers doesn’t even have four walls.

The Bull nods once, then gets to his feet, unfolding his great bulk in a lazy stretch. Cassandra has a newfound appreciation for the sight.

“I’ll be in my room later, Seeker,” he says, too casual in a way that has her every nerve thrilling. “Door’s always open to you. Right now the boys’ll be expecting me in the tavern.”

“Of course, Bull,” she says. “I will not keep you.”

With a friendly smile, he claps her on the shoulder, then ambles off in the direction of the Herald’s Rest looking perfectly at ease. When it comes to discretion, Cassandra reflects, she could certainly have done worse than to proposition a spy.

She tries not to think about it for the rest of the evening as she goes about her own routine: she knows she would only get horrible nerves if she did, and she’s never been any good at hiding her emotions. Instead she changes out of her combat gear, begs dinner from the kitchen, and retreats to her loft to reread a few chapters of one of Varric’s books, chosen at random. And then, when the hour has grown late enough that some of the soldiers have started to wander back to the barracks, she stands, blows out her candle, and goes for a walk.

The battlements are quiet at this hour. A few soldiers patrol, in ones or twos, watching over the mountains that cradle Skyhold under a ravaged sky; they nod to her as she passes, salute her with a fist to the breast, but she merely returns the gesture and moves on, not stopping to talk. She meets no one else, praise the Maker, and certainly no one else who would question her approaching the Herald’s Rest by such a roundabout route.

The Bull answers the door to her quiet knock, taking only a moment’s glance to confirm it’s her before he steps back and wordlessly invites her in.

Cassandra follows, undoing the laces on her cloak, and allows the door to close silently behind her as she takes in the look of the room. It’s clean, despite the hole in the ceiling, and kept in an exacting order that looks habitual rather than for her sake. Still, there’s evidence that care was taken for her visit: there are candles on the tables, strategically placed to light the room without over-brightening the cosier corners, and in the fireplace there is water set to heat over coals sweetened with a handful of fragrant herbs. The Bull himself is already stripped of his boots and his leathers, leaving him dressed only in his pants and the ever-present eyepatch.

Cassandra realizes abruptly that she’s been silent for several long moments and clears her throat, saying the first thing to come to her mind: “You could have that repaired, you know.”

The Bull grins, in the manner of one who has heard the same suggestion many times before. “I like the fresh air,” he says.

“Suit yourself,” Cassandra says. The extent of her small talk exhausted, she casts around briefly for another topic before giving up and moving on to the matter at hand. “You are certain no one else knows I am here?”

“Don’t worry,” the Bull says. “Far as anyone knows, I decided to turn in early. When I left, the boys were laughing it up about me going to bed alone.”

Cassandra snorts inelegantly at that, and he chuckles. “Hey, it happens more often than you’d think. Especially for how big a deal they make of it.”

“All the same,” she says, “I have no interest in becoming another tale of conquest.”

“They won’t hear a thing from me,” he promises.

Despite her nerves, Cassandra finds herself reassured by that—enough to cross the scant few paces between them and tentatively rest her hand against his chest. “I know,” she says simply.

The Bull’s response to that is astonishing. His great hands lift immediately, one coming to rest at her waist and the other cradling her jaw. He bends his head to her, the brush of his forehead and nose against hers tantalizing in its nearness. Still, despite the tension thrumming through his frame, he holds himself back; it is Cassandra who lifts herself half an inch up on her toes to close the remaining space between their lips.

From all the stories—and occasional songs—she’s heard, she had expected the Bull to be passionate. He is, and he isn’t: his lips are gentle against hers, for all his palpable eagerness, but there’s a powerful checked strength behind the softness of his kisses. Cassandra feels her blood rising as she lifts herself up, pulling him closer; she would like to taste that strength unleashed.

They don’t speak as they trade kisses back and forth—deep, close kisses, for all that they’re languid and slow. The Bull helps her remove her sword belt and gambeson in the breathing spaces, his hands solicitous against her body, almost romantic. It helps to relax her, the last of her nerves fluttering away under his soft touches. She trusts him. More than her comrade in arms, he is her friend—and, by all accounts, very invested in showing his partners a good time.

When she’s down to just her undershirt and leggings, he pulls back, drawing in a long breath. His eye is dark, his pupil wide and his gaze fixed firmly on her mouth, but still he holds himself back with a discipline that belies his recklessness on the battlefield. Settling his hands on her upper arms, he says, “What do you need?”

The question catches Cassandra slightly off guard, but she responds without allowing herself the chance to second-guess her words. “I want to not have to think,” she says. “Like—like losing yourself in a difficult training exercise. I want to just _do_ , until I can’t anymore, and not have to worry about anything.”

The Bull nods slowly, considering her with a look that is shrewd for all that the heat hasn’t remotely left it. “Do you want to push me around a bit?”

Cassandra blinks, then allows herself to contemplate the question—and decides, not entirely to her surprise, that it appeals to her. “Yes, I think. I would.”

The Bull’s answering grin is so wide, and so immediate, that Cassandra has to laugh. “Are you offering for my sake, or do you just want me to boss you around?”

“Can’t it be both?”

She laughs again at that—is reminded of Galyan, of the way he could never stop joking with her no matter the situation. She finds the memory doesn’t sting as much as she expected it to. She thinks he’d be glad to see her having a good time.

The Bull is smiling at her amusement, but his tone is sincere when he adds, “That’s good, though. It makes things easier. If I know you’re in control, I don’t have to worry about doing anything you wouldn’t like.”

Cassandra considers that for a moment. “What about something _you_ wouldn’t like?”

“I doubt there’s much you could do that I wouldn’t like,” he quips.

“Bull,” she says with a warning tone. He raises his hands, placating.

“No, seriously,” he says. “But if it does come up, I’ll say something. Honest.”

“I have your word?”

The Bull waggles his eyebrow at her. “You’ve got way more than my word, Seeker.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes at that, but nonetheless she shoves him back to the bed without further ado. It’s a test, of sorts: she’s strong, and she beats the Bull sparring two times out of three, but she wouldn’t be able to just push him like this if he didn’t allow it.

He allows it.

He sits down heavily, and she climbs onto his lap, noting with a pleased flush just how far her legs have to part in order to straddle him: she may not be especially tall, but it’s rare that she feels small next to any man. The Bull is one of few she’s ever met who could manage it, and _oh_ , how well he manages.

In their current position, there’s also no hiding the physical evidence of how he desires her. She finds herself gratified by that at the same time as it sends a spike of heat into her stomach.

She kisses him hard, winding her arms around his shoulders, one hand curling up to grip his horn and yank him down against her. He nearly bites down on her lip at that, a growl thrumming in his throat, and falls easily into her hands. She’d almost call it yielding, the way he answers her touch, but for how eager he is.

She could lose herself in his mouth. Perhaps already has.

At last she becomes conscious of a need to breathe, breaking away and sucking down air in great gulps. The Bull is in much the same way, his chest heaving against hers; if she’d thought his eye was blown before, now it’s nearly black.

“On your back,” she rasps, shifting from his lap so he can reorient himself on the bed. He obeys immediately, and she kneels at the end of the bed to watch, giving her pounding heart a chance to calm.

“How’s this?” he says. He is lounging on his back at the centre of the bed, his head propped up against his pillows to keep her in view. There is just enough space between his horns and the bedframe to keep them from scraping, but not so much he can’t reach up to grab hold, if she should so desire.

 _If she should tell him to_ , she thinks, with a delicious little shiver.

“Perfect,” she says, and gets off the bed. “Now strip. And you are not to touch yourself until I say so.”

He does as instructed, far more enthusiastic about it than any man has a right to be when told not to pleasure himself. Suddenly overwhelmed, Cassandra turns away and begins methodically stripping herself of her remaining clothing. She folds them neatly and sets them on the table with the rest of her things, running shaking fingers along the lines of the pleats. Resolutely she clamps down on her nervousness. She has bathed in the company of soldiers before. If she can do that, there’s no reason she can’t do this.

She turns back to the bed. The Bull has laid himself out in the position she ordered him into, his hands resting lightly at his sides, the interested jut of his cock belying the impression of calm he otherwise gives off. He has tossed his absurd pants over the back of a chair at the foot of the bed. Cassandra can’t see his smalls anywhere; belatedly it occurs to her to wonder if he wears them.

Quite suddenly she realizes the Bull is eyeing her in return. His gaze is suffused with heat as he takes in her form, and she flushes all down her chest at his scrutiny—but still, there’s something almost tender in his face, and it’s that, more than anything, that gives her the courage to return to the bed.

She settles at his side, flexing her hands as she traces over his body. Despite the evidence of her eyes, she’s almost surprised at the solidity of him. She’s thought on the size of his muscles before, certainly, but never—like this. He’s a work of art, all scar and sinew and softening fat. No part of his body has escaped the mark of his mercenary life.

No part save one. She lets her hand come to rest there, teasing through the dark curls of hair at the base of his cock. He groans at that, his hips shifting up into her touch, and she flattens her palm on his pelvis and pushes him back down.

“Oh, come on,” he begins, but she presses down more firmly.

“Keep still,” she orders.

He groans again, but does as he’s told. “You want me to keep quiet, too?”

Cassandra snorts, but she’s grinning. “Where is the fun in that?”

The Bull grins back at her. “So, does that mean you want to hear me complain about you making me wait?”

“Complain all you like, Bull,” she says, “but you’re going to do as you’re told—aren’t you?”

The Bull lets out a long, controlled breath through his nose, and that, more than everything he’s yet said, thrills to Cassandra’s blood. Not letting herself stop to think, she shifts to kneel between his knees, pushing his legs apart and letting her hands spread against his thighs. He gasps softly, and she looks up to see him watching her, his eye wide and slightly wild.

“Shit,” he says, “you don’t mess around, do you?”

She smiles, with a wicked curve to the corner that she knows he loves, but all she says is, “Keep still.”

To his credit, he makes an excellent effort. His hips barely twitch as she drags her hands up to them, mapping out the expanse of his skin. His inner thighs are surprisingly soft. He bites his lip to contain a rough noise as she presses her fingers into the hollows where they meet his groin, only to let it out in a suppressed shout when she cups his balls and squeezes lightly.

Up until that point, Cassandra had been able to keep up the pretense—for show only, as she knows they’re both fully aware of how false it is—that she was deaf to his reactions. Now she can no longer contain herself. She shudders, wrapping a hand around his cock and leaning over him, dragging her fingers all the way up to the head, slick with precome.

His whole body goes taut, as if his entire being has centred itself around her hands. She can scarcely gasp out an order: “Touch me, Bull—I want your hands on me.”

He complies immediately, fitting his hands around her hips and pulling her in tight against him. She grinds against him and leans down for a kiss—messy, desperate, her arm pinned between them as she works along his cock. “I want you to make me come with your hands,” she says, her words nearly swallowed against his lips.

“Shit,” he says, just as breathless, just as slurred, “yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

She shifts up, just enough to let him slide his hand down between them, her entire body jolting against him when he presses his fingers against her clit. He’s slow to start, and it’s not enough, not enough—Cassandra is only just now realizing that it’s been a long time with only her own hand for company.

She thumps her palm ineffectually against his chest. “More,” she snaps. “Maker take you, _more_ , I want to come hard and _fast_ , Bull.”

He wastes no time in doing as he’s told, and Cassandra finds herself collapsing back down against his chest under his onslaught. His hands are so big that by the time he’s pressed a third finger into her he may as well be fucking her, and she bears down on him in mindless need.

“That’s it, Seeker,” he murmurs against her cheek. “That’s it, come on, you’re so tense…”

Cassandra laughs briefly, half-hysterical and cut off abruptly with another firm thrust. The Bull grinds his palm against her clit, and she squeezes around him, digging her nails into his chest. Then her orgasm slams into her and she nearly cries out, muffling the sound with her teeth in his shoulder.

The Bull works her through it, keeping a tight grip on her hip as he gradually slows his movements. At last she relaxes and lets him go, and he slides his hand from her, lifting it to his mouth to taste his fingers. Cassandra flushes at that, sitting back; far from sateing her frustrations, coming once has only made her want more, and the Bull is still so hard against her.

His fingers cleaned, the Bull drops his hand to examine the bite she left in his shoulder. Only now does Cassandra realize she bit hard enough to leave marks.

“By the Maker,” she says. “I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the Bull says easily, grinning up at her. “You think it’ll still be there tomorrow?”

For a moment Cassandra just stares at him, and then laughter bubbles up in her throat and she collapses against his chest. “You are _impossible_ ,” she says.

“What?” he says, but she can tell he knows very well _what_ —he’s laughing, too.

Cassandra gets her voice under control, taking a deep breath. “If you really want marks from me that badly, Bull, I will gladly beat you on the training ground tomorrow.”

“You’re on.”

“Right now, however, I have other concerns,” she says, and shifts her hips down against his.

The Bull’s hand tightens on her thigh. “Right. Other concerns. Definitely,” he says, too quickly. She gives him a knowing look, and he grins. “What are your orders, Seeker?”

Cassandra elects to ignore the decidedly insubordinate tone with which he utters those words, and climbs off of him. “Slick yourself up—I’m sure you must have oil about somewhere,” she says. “I want to ride you.” And then, seeing him open his mouth with an altogether too gleeful look on his face, “Do _not_ say it, Bull.”

“You’re no fun,” he says, tone thick with a feigned dejection it’s hard to take seriously when he’s already sitting up to grab a bottle of oil from under the edge of his mattress.

“This tells me different,” she says, wrapping her hand around his cock, making him hiss briefly as he pours oil out onto his fingers. “Go on.”

She takes the bottle from him as he slicks himself, setting it aside, and pushes him back down onto the bed. Once more she straddles him, again feeling the stretch in her thighs at how far they have to open. She is just as eagerly anticipating the stretch of having him inside her.

Her breathing is shaky as she guides him into her, but her hands are steady. He slides into her easily enough, with the oil and her slick and the openness of her already having come, but she sinks onto him slowly nonetheless, wanting to enjoy every second.

The Bull’s hands are digging into her thighs as she starts to move, but she finds that’s not enough. “Give me something to fight against,” she says. “If we’re going to work out my frustrations, I want to do it properly.”

“You got it,” he says. He circles his hands around her wrists, tensing his arms and jerking her towards him. Cassandra bucks against him, feeling the heat of it flare through her core.

“Oh—oh yes, that’s it,” she says, tugging back against his grip as she moves against him. He doesn’t let go—doesn’t even move his arms—and she fights with increasing fervour to no avail. She can’t escape him, not even when she starts using proper combat tricks—or as close as she can get to combat tricks while still riding his cock.

“Shit, yes,” the Bull says, tugging her down towards him—a pull she yanks back against, making his eye shine with mingled admiration and arousal. “Seeker—Cassandra—fuck, you’re so good, you’re so gorgeous—”

Cassandra breathes out a shaky laugh, but the Bull’s hands at her wrists are insistent. “I mean it,” he says. “Do you have any idea what you do to me out on the practice field? Shit, you’re a fucking marvel to watch with a sword in your hand. And now looking at you like this— _fuck_. Fuck, come on—”

“I’m close,” she gasps.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, Cassandra, that’s it—”

Cassandra has stopped fighting him now; all her focus is on the mounting pressure between her legs. She braces her palms against his chest, her hips rocking down hard against his. “Don’t come until I tell you,” is all she can manage to say, and then her climax hits her and the world goes white-hot for a brief, endless moment.

She nearly collapses against him again when she comes back to herself, but instead she forces herself to pull off of him. The Bull has held himself back at her order, his entire body taut with the strain of it, and she drags her hands down his stomach to wrap one around his cock. “Alright. Now,” she says, giving him a firm stroke.

That’s all it takes. The Bull chokes back a cry as he comes hard, slamming his head back so hard that his horn scrapes a line into the bedframe after all. Cassandra doesn’t let him go until he’s spent, the result of his orgasm streaked thickly across his stomach.

At that point she judges it safe to collapse, and does, half on him and half at his side. For a long time, there is no sound in the room but the both of them breathing and the coals gently settling in the hearth.

At last, the Bull wets his lips, lets out a low whistle, and says, “Damn, Seeker.”

Cassandra snorts, but she can’t stop the smile from tugging at her lips.

“So,” he says, “are you feeling properly un-frustrated, or do we need to work at it some more? I’m game to try it if you are.”

“And a great sacrifice it would be for you, I’m sure,” she says. She rolls onto her back, considering. She would be lying to say she isn’t tempted—after all, by her own request, this is the only chance she’ll have. But at the same time…

“No, I don’t think so,” she says, “but thank you for the offer. I have what I came for, and I’m happy with what we have had.”

“Hey,” the Bull says, both his voice and his smile unusually soft, “always happy to help.”

He sits up with a low groan, cracking his back and rolling his shoulders, then gets to his feet to fetch the water from the fireplace. He brings it to her, along with a couple of clean washcloths, and uses it to clean first her, then himself and the bed. Cassandra relaxes under his touch, appreciating the briskness of his movements now that they’ve finished: it’s friendly, but not lingering—more camaraderie than romance.

“You know, you can stay a while if you’d like,” he says.

Cassandra shakes her head. “I don’t think so,” she says, but softens the denial with a smile. “I think I prefer to sleep in my own bed.”

“Sure,” the Bull says, seemingly as happy with her refusal as if she’d chosen to remain. “I’ll help you with your gear, if you like.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Nah,” he says. He picks up his pants, pulling them back on to guard against the evening chill. “I’ll probably read for a bit and then go to bed.”

As far as Cassandra can tell, he means it. In some obscure way, it reassures her. Even with what has passed between them tonight, she feels comfortable with him. That’s a gift she would receive from precious few men in a similar situation.

The Bull helps her button her gambeson and settle her belt and tunic over it. By the time they’re done she bears no sign of their tryst, even her hair settled back down in order by his careful fingers. With that barrier reestablished between them, he hesitates in leaning down to kiss her, but Cassandra hooks her hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down.

One last kiss, sweet and soft, before they part.

She lets him go. He doesn’t ask her to reconsider doing this again; she knew he wouldn’t, but still she respects him all the more for living up to her expectations.

“Thank you,” she says, “for a truly enjoyable evening.”

“Anytime,” the Bull says. “Or, uh—not, I guess.”

Cassandra laughs. “Bull. I know what you meant.”

He returns her smile. “Just how it was before,” he says.

“Thank you. Really,” she says. “Goodnight, Bull.”

“Goodnight, Seeker.”

She goes home.

* * *

The morning sun is bright when Cassandra arrives on the training grounds the next day, and the Bull and his Chargers are already in attendance.

“Morning, Seeker,” he calls, lifting an arm in a careless wave. “What are you so happy about?”

Cassandra smiles, her eyes tracing a brief line across his chest and shoulders before flicking to his face. “It is simply a good day,” she says. “Don’t you think so?”

The Bull grins. “That’s what I like to hear,” he says. He hefts his maul. “Wanna put that energy to good use?”

There is no mark on his shoulder; it seems Cassandra’s teeth couldn’t prevail against qunari skin after all.

“I suppose I do owe you a few bruises,” she agrees. “Let us see how you fare.”


End file.
